The very best of times
by alice.ou84
Summary: A new and unexpected danger threaten to jeopardize the lives of Sherlock and John. When Sherlock is poisoned, he and John must work against time to find an antidote before time runs out. A third Holmes brother is revealed but his past as well as his present motivations are questionable and dangerous. Can Mycroft and Sherlock trust him? Read if you enjoy Bromance.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: The very best of times.**

**Author: Alice**

**Disclaimer: The title is in reference to "A tale of Two cities" by Charles Dickens and it's famous first words "It was the best of times, it was the worse of times.." Additionally, it references the last words Sherlock said to John in "His last vow". Also, the name Sherrinford has long been rumoured to be the 3rd Holmes brother so I take no credit for it. The creation of Sherlock Holmes of course belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and it's current popular incarnation, to the crew of BBC. **

**Rating: T**

**Summary: A third Holmes brother is revealed but his past as well as his present motivations are questionable and dangerous. Can Mycroft and Sherlock trust him? When Sherlock is poisoned, he and John must work against time to find an antidote before time runs out. What role does Sherrinford Holmes play in Sherlock's potential demise? Read if you enjoy Bromance. No Slash.**

* * *

**Chapter 1 **

Charles Augustus Magnussen had influence over many of the most important people in Britain.

Behind the frameless glasses he so tentatively cleaned, he saw the critical pressure points of anyone he chose to interrogate. His mind was a library of information. What he used with this forbidden knowledge was potentially detriment to the whole of the western world.

It took him several encounters with Mycroft Holmes, digging through the rubbles of a brilliant mind before stumbling upon his pressure point. The fact was, he had two pressure points. He had though it impossible, too good to be true- the ability to hold the most powerful man in Britain ransom with knowledge of a shady past, buried and long forgotten to those less observant.

His younger brother Sherlock Holmes, on the other hand was...different.

The tall, dark haired, and fair skinned consulting detective gives little away with his steely and enigmatic demeanor. However, very occasionally, concealed emotions escape his grey blue eyes, betraying his cold intellectual exterior.

He has many pressure points. In fact, more than most individuals and every one of them provided Magnussen with means of unleashing havoc. _John Watson, Irene Adler (see file), Jim Moriarty (see file), Redbeard (see file), Hounds of the Baskerville, Opium..._

Mycroft Holmes's profile on the other hand, was far less revealing, except for one very important detail.

_British Government official._

_Porn Preference: Unknown._

_Finances: Unknown._

_Brothers: Sherlock Holmes, M.I.6_

_Pressure Point: Sherlock Holmes, Sherrinford Holmes._

Ahh...Magnusson smiles, sitting back in his chair, his glasses glinting from the reflections of the crackling fireplace-A third Holmes brother. How very interesting.

With this knowledge, Magnussen had information which would allow him to blackmail the most powerful man in Britain.

5 months later, on Christmas day, Charles Augustus Magnussen was shot dead by Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

Deep in Sherlock Holmes's memory palace was a complicated but carefully catalogued tapestry of useful knowledge and information. Any useless facts are deleted as they slow him down.

Very occasionally, when he let his guard down, he saw the distorted face of his older brother. Memories of him were always hazy, covered by an impenetrable mist, set by the walls of his own mind. No, it wasn't Mycroft. He had another brother once. His name is Sherrinford.

Sherlock remembers their childhood with some fondness. In many ways, he was closer to Sherrinford then he ever was to Mycroft. Where Mycroft was reserved and read his way through the world, obtaining his knowledge from literature and astute observation, Sherrinford, much like Sherlock, preferred to explore, to go on adventures, slaying imaginary dragons along the way. Except that as one gets older, imaginary dragons becomes a metaphor, and growing up means understanding that evil can be like serpents, rising in defiance of order and control.

It has been 15 years since Sherlock last saw Sherrinford. He had been 18 years old, trying to navigate the likes of Oxford and Cambridge but finding its occupants frustrating, bound by bureaucratic nuisances and the games humans like to play.

Sherrinford was 22 at the time. He, like Mycroft before him, found his calling with Britain's secret Intelligence Service (SIS). Unlike Mycroft, he was a natural at field work and was soon recruited into M.I.6. That was the last time Sherlock ever saw of him. For 10 years since his absence, Sherlock received a card every year on his birthday, always with a hand written message.

His last birthday card was dated January 6th, 2009. 5 years ago.

Today is the 5th of January. Sherlock sits in his favourite chair, in nervous anticipation. He knew that John would be returning soon and would bring the mail upstairs with him. Sherlock had not ventured down to check the mail. To do so would be to admit that he had hoped for the impossible.

He heard John coming up the stairs now. His footsteps sounded tired from the day's work at the medical clinic. Someone had to pay the bills around here and detective work can be unreliable. There was a steady stream of work offers, but unfortunately, few that Sherlock considered worthy of his time.

"Hey." John said, as he set down the heap of mail he had collected from the mail box downstairs.

Sherlock did not answer. He eyed the mail on the table, searching for signs of familiar handwriting. There were none. A sigh escaped him.

"You alright?" John asked. He glanced sideways at Sherlock but assumed that he was just in one of his contemplative moods.

"Yes." Came the response, detached and uninterested. "Oh and don't mind the liver." He said as John headed towards the fridge, in search of an afternoon snack. "Molly Hooper donated it to me today. I am experimenting." He said simply.

John didn't even bother giving an exasperated sigh as he once would. This was life living with Sherlock Holmes and it was something he had gotten quite used to, even, he paused and smiled-quite fond of.

* * *

"Are you certain?"

"Yes sir," His informant said. "I saw them with my own eyes. They are experimenting on chemical warfare. 3 cannisters are set to detonate at undisclosed locations around England in the imminent future. Sir..." The informant said gravely, "this is war."

Mycroft Holmes did not respond.

"Sir, we need Sherlock Holmes."

"No." Mycroft said sternly. "He is not to get involved." _This time, it is too dangerous. _Mycroft thought. _No, this was the responsibility of the secret services and the British government, not Sherlock, not his little brother. _More than anything else he had ever asked Sherlock to investigate,Mycroft deduced almost immediately that this assignment could prove fatal to Sherlock.

"But Sir, his interest and expertise in biochemical engineering and chemicals make him an ideal candi-"

Mycroft shook his head. "No, leave it to me."

"Mycroft Holmes." A tall, imposing figure walks into the room. "You are not the British government as you may think. Also, I regret to inform you-" He takes a step closer to Mycroft so that they are almost face to face. "_you_ are one of the targets."

* * *

Ciao until next time!


	2. Chapter 2

**Title: The very best of times.**

**Author: Alice**

**Disclaimer: The title is in reference to "A tale of Two cities" by Charles Dickens and it's famous first words "It was the best of times, it was the worse of times.." **Additionally, it references the last words Sherlock said to John in "His last vow". **Also, the name Sherrinford has long been rumoured to be the 3rd Holmes brother so I take no credit for it. The creation of Sherlock Holmes of course belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and it's current popular incarnation, to the crew of BBC.**

**Rating: T**

**Summary: A third Holmes brother is revealed but his past as well as his present motivations are questionable and dangerous. Can Mycroft and Sherlock trust him? When Sherlock is poisoned, he and John must work against time to find an antidote before time runs out. What role does Sherrinford Holmes play in Sherlock's potential demise? Read if you enjoy Bromance. No Slash.**

* * *

**Chapter 2**

Mycroft sat in the office of his family estate. Soothing jazz music played in the background as he stared at a photo on his table, lost in the memories it bought. 3 young boys of different ages stared with disinterest at the camera. No doubt, they were not pleased at the prospect of being photographed. He was the tallest and the oldest, leading the way with his displeasure of having his picture taken. Then there was Sherlock, black curls spouting, a scowl on his face, much shorter than the other two. Another boy stood to the side, his face was passive. Together, they were the Holmes brothers. Each gifted with intellect, above average mental capacity, superior deductive skills and a propensity to patronize normal humans. Together, they were undefeatable.

Sherrinford. He had another brother once. When he lost him, he had become overbearingly protective of Sherlock, and in doing so, inadvertently pushing him away. He bowed his head now, deep into the creases of his cupped hands as he remembered last night's conversation.

_"You are one of the targets."_

_"That barely scares me. There are daily threats on my life. So far, I have outlived all my adversaries. Who is the executor this time?" Even Moriarty was no match for him. It would take Sherlock Holmes to fool me. He had once said to John Watson._

_A pause. "Sherrinford Holmes."_

For once in his life, Mycroft Holmes shuddered, feeling fear in the abyss that his usual ego and intellectual prowess had not allowed him.

* * *

The morning of January the 6th came and went without event. Lestrade had called to request his presence at murder scene but Sherlock had declined. The case was a five at most, and he did not leave his house for any less than a seven. He had told Lestrade so and after some muttering from the detective, had nonchalantly offered his deductions over the phone. The police were now on their way to capture the murderer.

"I'm bored." Sherlocked yelled into the empty living room. He picked up John's gun in his hand and squinted his eyes, aiming at a familiar spot on the wall.

" Hey! Where did you find that?" John yelled from the kitchen. He eyed Sherlock suspiciously over his cup of coffee. "I hid it!"

Sherlocked rolled his eyes.

"Oh please." He said, scratching the back of his head with the gun. Today, more than any other day, he felt restless.

John huffed with annoyance. "You should have accepted Lestrade's case if you're so bored. Even a five is better than not having anything to occupy your mind. At least you would have an excuse to leave the house."

"I don't need an excuse to leave the house."

"Moreover, it has been a month since you last accepted a case." John continued. He pointed at his laptop. "Your popularity is soaring, the blog count is at a new high-more than 1 million views and job offers are rolling in. Maybe if you would just-" His voice softened. He realized the futility of his words. A brilliant mind like Sherlock's should not go to waste on any common case. Stimulating the far reaches of his mind palace required intrigue, danger and similar brilliance. Ever since Moriarty went to ground, few have been able to rival the consulting detective's intellect. Surely, the only other individual capable of arousing interest, forcing Sherlock to feel challenged, was another Holmes.

On the plus side, the absence of cases had meant that Sherlock had a lot of spare time to attend to basic human activities such as eating and sleeping. John considers this turbo refuel time before another case lands at their feet, which undoubtedly, will occur at some point.

The front door bell rang. He heard Mrs Hudson, bless her, open the door, allowing the visitor inside.

"Mycroft!" The identity of the visitor was revealed. "The boys are upstairs."

Mycroft appeared at their doorway, his signature umbrella in one hand, a wrapped gift in another.

"To what do we owe this pleasure?" Sherlock asked, his back to Mycroft. As usual, he did not give his brother the welcome he deserved.

There was no answer from Mycroft as he stood awkwardly in the doorway. He glanced down at the gift, contemplating his next words.

"Is it about a case?" Sherlock sounded a little more interested as he straightened up in his chair.

"Happy birthday, brother." Mycroft finally said.

"What!" John jumped to his feet. "Today's your birthday?" He yelled in utter surprise. Of all the years he'd known Sherlock, mundane yearly celebrations of life was certainly not a pass time he allowed. He had blatantly refused to disclose the date of his birthday to anyone, not even to his best friend.

Sherlock finally turned his chair around. He had a look of annoyance on his face. "Are you kidding me, Mycroft? We don't do this. We never have." His eyes fell on the gift in his brother's hand. He glanced away quickly. Sentiment was a disadvantage, even when no foes were in the vicinity.

"Mother's orders." Mycroft lied. _Because I'm going to die, Sherlock. That's why we are doing this. Because this might be the last time we can ever do this. Maybe, normal isn't so bad. After all, 7 billion people subscribe to it around the world._

In two quick strides, Sherlock was by Mycroft's side. He took the gift from his brother, never allowing himself to spare a glance at it before throwing it unceremoniously onto the sofa.

"Thank you." John said, speaking as always for Sherlock's lack of response.

Mycroft turned to leave.

"Wait!" John shouted as a brilliant idea came to mind. "Stop by tonight again."

"Why?" Both Mycroft and Sherlock asked in unison.

"Because..." He said slowly as he looked at Sherlock, expecting instant disapproval. "We're going to have a nice dinner tonight...for Sherlock's birthday."

* * *

To Sherlock's dismay, John was adamant that dinner was to proceed. Before nightfall, the guest list had expanded rapidly to include Mrs Hudson, Lestrade and Molly Hooper. Sherlock frowned a lot that afternoon. There was barely space on his kitchen table to fit all these people. He certainly didn't have enough chairs. But Mrs Hudson had just waved her hand at him, ignoring his displeasure and squealing with delight at the thought of preparing a feast.

She had given him a big hug. "Oh Sherlock, all these years and I never knew!"

Now, he could smell the fragrance of roast chicken and potatoes wafting up the stairwell. It was in some ways, vaguely pleasant. Sherlock set about updating his website "The science of deduction" with an analysis of London's geology. You never know when it would come in handy. Certainly, he found the knowledge invaluable when locating the children in Moriarty's carefully set up Hansel and Gretel deception.

He eyed the counter on his own website; the number was dismal compared to John's blog. He guessed that normal people were more preoccupied with the thrill of the chase. Rarely, do they stop to observe, to read between the lines, to pay attention to the crucial details, minute as they may be.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he observed John busily cleaning up their apartment. Sherlock wanted to tell him to stop, to quit making such a spectacle of it. It was only his birthday after all.

He decided against protesting. There was no point. He could read the determination in John's furrowed brows. He was set on giving Sherlock a birthday celebration of sorts, something Sherlock had declined participating in since he left his childhood home.

An hour later, the first of the guests arrived. It was Molly Hooper. She was dressed casually, like she had just left work in a hurry. He observed the faded outline of lipstick rubbed from the edges of her mouth. She must have applied lipstick and then decided against it, he deduced.

"Hi Sherlock!" She beamed at him. "Happy birthday!"

Sherlock grunted a response.

She stood silently for several minutes before saying awkwardly. "Err...How's the liver going?"

Sherlock perked up. "The liver is fascinating. Its ability to regenerate, detoxify, synthesize proteins and produce the biochemicals necessary for digestion is really quite remarkable. I examined some of the cellular structure under my microscope. Although...I suspect the previous owner of this liver was poisoned. I observed advance signs of toxicity."

Molly again beamed at him, like he had deduced something less then obvious.

"You're quite right. This victim was from Eastern Europe. Exposure to the toxin was 7 days prior to death. He subsequently suffered from headaches, blood noses, nausea and vomiting, muscular spasms, dyspnoea and muscle paralysis before losing consciousness and finally cardiac arrest. I have taken samples from the liver as well as kidneys for analysis but have yet to come up with the toxin. "She walked over to his fridge and peered inside at the liver. "It's a mystery."

"Yep." Sherlock was in agreement. It was a mystery indeed and for once, something worthy of his time.

"Where's the birthday boy?" He could hear Lestrade shouting as he entered the front door and sprinted up the stairs.

"I see you've captured the killer." Sherlock stated simply as Lestrade emerged from the doorway.

Lestrade paused before answering. "The suspect was captured at 1500 this afternoon. " The hesitation did not escape Sherlock's observation.

"Problem?"

"We are struggling with a motive. Donovan is interrogating him but he is still refusing to talk"

"You may find him responsive to mention of a post box, south of London where he has hidden certain documents." Sherlock offered helpfully.

Lestrade nodded and walked towards the window with his phone lifted to his ears. He was calling Donovan.

Mycroft too arrived in good time and soon they were all seated for dinner. Mycroft was seated on opposite ends of the table to Sherlock. His demeanor was awkward, as if he was not quite sure of how to behave in such social settings. Molly and Lestrade sat on one side and were happily chatting over a recent case and Mrs Hudson and John on the other, busily playing the hosts and offering everyone food and wine.

When they had finished desert, some sickeningly sweet cake that Mrs Hudson called sticky date pudding, John raised his glass, silencing everyone.

"I would like to propose a toast-" He looked at Sherlock who was frowning at him. "To Sherlock."

"Shut up, John. For god's sake-" Sherlock started, unwittingly turning a shade of crimson.

John ignored him. "For being the most arrogant, unpleasant and ridiculous asshole I have ever had the pleasure of knowing. When I returned from Afghanistan and we became flatmates, my life changed . I gained a best friend. I live my life on the edge and it is generally enjoyable because of this little bugger over here." He held his glass of wine in Sherlock's direction and this time Sherlock held his gaze, not looking away.

I think I speak for all of you in saying that life's next great adventure always follow Sherlock." He looked at Mrs Hudson, at Molly, at Lestrade and finally at Mycroft. Molly eyes were brimming with tears and Mrs Hudson was dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. "So thank you, Sherlock Holmes."

"John, that was beautiful dear!" Mrs Hudson sniffled.

"Here, here! Happy birthday Sherlock!" Everyone chimed and even Sherlock gave a little smile, faint pink coloring his high cheekbones. _This is actually kind of nice._ He thought. _Thank you, John._ His hand brushed John's and he let it linger there, a little longer than usual.

The evening was dying down when Mrs Hudson startled from her seat and hurried downstairs. She came huffing back upstairs with an envelope clutched in her hands. Sherlock recognized it immediately but did not rush forward to receive it. No, he told himself. _Control._

"Oh Sherlock, I almost forgot to give this to you. It arrived in my mail today; I think the postman got our addresses mixed up!"

Sherlock took the envelope from her hands coolly and slid it into his coat pocket. He did not miss the suspicious look that Mycroft gave him. Ignoring it, he picked up his violin and started playing.

* * *

Everyone else had left, all tipsy from the lure of alcohol, when Sherlock finally retrieved the envelope from the pocket of his coat. John was already dead to the world and snoring upstairs.

The envelope was white and crisp in his hands. Sherlock hands were slow and steady when opening it. Using a small knife, he slit open the envelope and glanced inside. A card.

_Dear Sherlock,_

_It's been a while. As always, even in my absence, Happy Birthday._

_Sherrinford_

Sherlock allowed his back to fall against the spine of the sofa. He let out a long sigh of relief. Sherrinford. 5 years since his last contact and 15 since he was last seen, but this card was evidence that he was still alive. _Where have you been, brother? Mycroft is a rubbish big brother._ Mycroft, who had been strangely accommodating tonight, sitting and drinking amongst the common people and showing no contempt for their intellect, or there lack of, even engaging in polite if occasionally patronizing conversations with Lestrade about the current state of the police force.

Sherlock tried to remember the last time he saw Sherrinford, but his mind was clouded. His mind palace a complicated maze difficult to traverse at the best of times, and now with a little alcohol in his system...it proved impossible to navigate. All Sherlock remembered was a dark room, rushed whispers, and a sense of urgency and danger...

His thoughts were interrupted by an unfamiliar ringtone. He frowned. A phone. Someone must have left it behind.

He looked around the room and saw the faint glow of a lit up screen on his mantelpiece. He moved to pick it up, hoping to locate its owner.

His eyes fell on the text message on the screen.

_Tomorrow, 1800._

_51.5072° N, 0.1275° W_

_SH_

His initials, but the text message was not sent by him.

The phone belonged to Mycroft. His brother had let his guard down tonight. He was out of character. Something was amiss. But what? Sherlock searched his own alcohol affected brain. Something was bothering Mycroft, something dangerous, something that challenged him, something that he feared. He had drank until his usual inhibitions were no more and he succumbed to the effects of alcohol and had to be taken away by his assistant Anthea.

When Mycroft had told him last Christmas that his loss would break his heart, Sherlock had choked on his own cigarette in apparent disgust. What he failed to tell Mycroft was that he was in some remote way, close to being touched by his words.

Sherlock memorized the coordinates. Then, after slight hesitation, he deleted the text message from his brother's phone. Turning the lights off, he retired to bed. Tomorrow was going to be a big day.

* * *

Hope you enjoyed the recent chapter!


	3. Chapter 3

**Title: The very best of times.**

**Author: Alice**

**Disclaimer: The title is in reference to "A tale of Two cities" by Charles Dickens and it's famous first words "It was the best of times, it was the worse of times.."****Additionally, it references the last words Sherlock said to John in "His last vow".****Also, the name Sherrinford has long been rumoured to be the 3rd Holmes brother so I take no credit for it. The creation of Sherlock Holmes of course belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and it's current popular incarnation, to the crew of BBC.**

**Rating: T**

**Summary: A third Holmes brother is revealed but his past as well as his present motivations are questionable and dangerous. Can Mycroft and Sherlock trust him? When Sherlock is poisoned, he and John must work against time to find an antidote before time runs out. What role does Sherrinford Holmes play in Sherlock's potential demise? Read if you enjoy Bromance. No Slash.**

* * *

**Chapter 3 **

Being born a Holmes made life considerably harder. Growing up, it became clear to Sherrinford Holmes that he and his brothers were not like other children. They were inquisitive to a fault, alienating any possible friends and even teachers who resented their intelligence and questions. Mycroft, Sherlock and himself, they only ever had each other's company. Soon, their parents had pulled them out of mainstream schooling, choosing instead to home school them. Whether that decision contributed to their eventual disposition for being loners was debatable. It may very well have ended the same way, even if they had to assimilate with others in society.

Nonetheless, Sherrinford remembered a relatively tolerable childhood. In their own little bubble, his brothers matched his intelligence and challenged him equally. He looked up to Mycroft and was protective of Sherlock, 3 years his junior. He enjoyed showing Sherlock the ropes and when bored, played deduction games, full of pride when his little brother found the answers first.

One summer in their youth, they all made a promise-a pact to stick together, no matter what. The vow was cemented with a time capsule. They all found 2 things each that were dear to them, and with the identity of the items hidden, buried them together underneath the oak tree at the family holiday residence, south west of London.

"_25 years" Sherrinford had said."We will meet exactly 25 years from now to open our time capsule." He had calculated the likely possibility that the years will see them drift apart. Time can be cruel but also knowing. If the years wash away the sentiment of being brothers, this time capsule will serve to remind them that families stick together, no matter what._

_Those were the best of times. _

However, 15 years is a long time to be alone.

Even if one's nature was such that work was paramount and the need for victory invalidates all else, power can be alienating. One may be indifferent to the qualms of other humans and their valued normality, however, there comes a point when ambition and success can masquerade as nothing more than an empty shell.

For many years, he saw little but relished in the thrills and dangers of a life constantly challenged but at the same time, repressed. He was free to fight his wars, but at the same time, trapped within the walls of an invisible prison.

His hands touched the cold exterior of his smart phone and for the umpteenth time he swiped the screen to reveal the last message he had sent.

_Tomorrow, 1800._

_51.5072° N, 0.1275° W_

_SH_

The wheels have been set into motion.

Was there an inkling of regret in his mind? _No. _It is a necessary evil.

Mycroft Holmes is a very important man. Although the breadth of his work within the British government is still unknown, it has always been perceived as being profound and substantial. That was why he remains a constant but elusive target, ready for the taking to those who dare to disturb the equilibrium.

He respected him once. Much like the yellow brick road, Mycroft's ascent in the government cemented his own career path, but even in an innocent children's novel, the final destination is unclear till the end. His own passion for field work had seen him placed in MI6 almost as soon as his training ended. Mycroft himself had posted him on his first and final assignment.

He had been excited, lured by his own ambitions and an all consuming greed for success and recognition. An undercover assignment in Eastern Europe saw him give up a life with family, friends, of relative normality. 9 months, Mycroft had estimated. His brother was never wrong.

No one recognised that he wasn't ready. No one told him that 9 months would become 1 year, and that 1 year would become 5, and that a decade of being somebody else can wreak havoc on the mind.

He remembers their last conversation clearly; it was like stone, forever etched in his memories.

"_I need out, Mycroft." _

_A long pause. "That is not possible. The situation is precarious. The last ten years would be futile. You have to stay put."_

"_It's taking over me." Sherrinford had whispered as he slumped against the wall. He was at the end of a long corridor somewhere in Eastern Europe and never had he felt so alone, so helpless. Did he dare tell Mycroft the truth? That the years have chipped away his conscience, and the faint stench of blood stained his hands, unable to be washed off. Without home, without London, without family, Sherrinford Holmes was no longer; in its place, a shadow of himself. _

"_Trust me." Mycroft had said before hanging up. _

_How can I trust you, Mycroft? You were wrong. _

"_Goodbye, Brother." Sherrinford had said as the monotonous dial tone echoed his brother's silence._

It was the beginning of the end.

That night, Sherrinford surrendered his MI6 alias permanently. He severed all contact with his previous life. The sins and crimes he had committed this lifetime prevent him from ever returning. One cannot rub out wrong doings simply with an eraser, not even if they were in the name of justice, or backed by the Secret Intelligence Service. Why uphold a childish pact, made in ignorance, when others have forgotten?

* * *

_Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring..._

Sherlock ignored the irritating ringtone. Instead, he focused on the analysis of the liver, examining its cellular structure and admiring the damage caused by the toxin. _Ingenious. _He thought. _Slow onset, vague symptoms, difficult to detect initially until effects of toxins culminates in respiratory arrest. Deadly...A cure would be near improbable._

"Sherlock! That was Mycroft on the phone. You weren't picking up. He said he left his phone here last night."

"Really, how careless of him."

"Have you seen it?"

"No."

He watched out of the corner of his eyes as John searched the living room before finally stopping by the mantelpiece.

"Here it is!"

"Good, give it back to him."

"He's your brother! Shouldn't you be the one returning it to him?"

"I'm busy."

"Busy with what?" John's asked inquisitively, moving closer to Sherlock. The detective hadn't left the house for a good week, so to say that he was busy was, well, quite startling. What had aroused the mind of the great consulting detective?

"I wish not to say."

John narrowed his eyes. He felt that Sherlock was up to no good. There was little left unspoken between them. He remembered the last time Sherlock had lied to him about his whereabouts, instead, misleading him with a decoy about Mrs Hudson. The man had then stood on the roof of St Bartholomew's Hospital, engaged in a battle of wits with Moriarty. Sherlock had then jumped to his apparent death, and all, because of a misguided saint complex, to save the lives of his friends. Sherlock never knew when to ask for help, that was his biggest downfall.

"Sherlock, we're not doing this again. Complete honesty. You owe it to me after faking your death and making me grief for two years, remember?" John said seriously as he stood over Sherlock who was seated in the kitchen, still examining the liver.

Slowly, Sherlock sat back from his microscope. He gave John a long, measured look. Was honesty really the best policy? What if it puts others in harm's way? But then Sherlock remembered the anger, disappointment and betrayal on John's face when he had returned from the dead unannounced. He didn't want to have to face that again. And maybe, he did owe it to him to be truthful. After all, that was what friends were for right? Also, the burden of knowledge was weighing on his shoulders. He needed someone to share it with, a battle plan to be deliberated if required.

"I'm meeting my brother." Sherlock began.

"Mycroft? Then why won't you take the phone-" John asked, confused.

"No, not Mycroft. I have another brother."

"You do?" John was looking at him, incredulously at the revelation.

"Yes, his name is Sherrinford Holmes."

John shook his head in disbelief. "I've never heard either you nor Mycroft speak of him."

"No, you wouldn't have. We have not seen him for the last 15 years. It is somewhat of a sore spot for Mycroft. They are not on friendly terms."

"Why? What happened?"

"The details are unclear but I deduce that it has something to do with Sherrinford's undercover work with MI6 and Mycroft's inability to extradite him." He paused, deep in thought as he remembered the details of the last 15 years. "My mother cried every night for a year after we lost contact with him. We had all thought him dead-until now."

"What makes you think he's still alive?"

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably in his chair, looking somewhat guilty. "I got a birthday card and a text message."

"Does Mycroft know?"

"Certainly not."

"Well, shouldn't you tell him? It's his brother as well." John said. He looked at Sherlock who was avoiding his eyes. "What are you hiding from me?"

Sherlock swallowed and began talking, his speech quicker than usual. "The text and its contents were meant for Mycroft, not myself."

"So you did know that he'd left his phone here. Why can't Mycroft be aware of Sherrinford's return? After all, Sherrinford is contacting him, not you."

"I'm not comfortable with the two of them meeting." Sherlock said. "I'm concerned that Sherrinford's return may not be all sunshine and daisies."

John swallowed nervously. He remembered a conversation with Sally Donovan some years ago. _Solving crimes won't be enough. One day he'll cross the line. _He had long realised that Sherlock was not prone to such inclinations, but what's to say that another Holmes would not pose a threat. He truly believed that if any of the Holmes brother wishes to annihilate the whole of the western world, that they would have a very good chance of succeeding.

"Is he dangerous?"

"He wouldn't hurt me." Sherlock said simply.

"I'm coming with you."

"No." Sherlock said, and that was that. He turned back to his microscope and said no more.

* * *

Next chapter, the beginning of the end for Sherlock? Please stay tuned. Thanks to those who have commented so far.


	4. Chapter 4

**Title: The very best of times.**

**Author: Alice**

**Disclaimer: The title is in reference to "A tale of Two cities" by Charles Dickens and it's famous first words "It was the best of times, it was the worse of times.." Also, the name Sherrinford has long been rumoured to be the 3rd Holmes brother so I take no credit for it. The creation of Sherlock Holmes of course belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and it's current popular incarnation, to the crew of BBC.**

**Rating: T**

**Summary: A third Holmes brother is revealed but his past as well as his present motivations are questionable and dangerous. Can Mycroft and Sherlock trust him? When Sherlock is poisoned, he and John must work against time to find an antidote before time runs out. What role does Sherrinford Holmes play in Sherlock's potential demise? Read if you enjoy Bromance. No Slash.**

* * *

**Chapter 4**

John watched as the black London cab paused before the end of the street, indicating left before disappearing around the corner. It was twilight and he was tailing Sherlock Holmes. This alone required a high level of stealth, expertise and commitment. Luckily, these were skills he had learnt over the years of living with the consulting detective.

It was a cold winter's night in London and he had watched Sherlock as he had wrapped his blue scarf and thrown on his Belstaff coat, lifting up its collar against the freezing temperatures. The time was 1700. After disclosing the existence of another Holmes brother, Sherlock had left John completely in the dark by blankly refusing to allow his presence at their first meeting in 15 years.

"Sherlock, you can't do this alone." John had said, exasperated. They had been at this conversation for a while now and the clock was ticking.

"Why not? I'll be fine. He is my brother and he was once fond of me."

"Yes, but you also said that his return was, and I quote you, not all sunshine and daisies. You were worried about Mycroft enough to prevent him from meeting up with Sherrinford."

"I am not worried about Mycroft. I am simply reducing the risk of any further animosity by stepping in first. "

"So why can't I come with you? I always come with you."

It was the look on Sherlock's face that stopped John from pushing on further. When they had first met, being a part of Sherlock's life meant sharing his adventures but also, his propensity to attract danger. Sherlock however, had never been shaken by it. John remembered Sherlock as he jumped from St Bartholomew's and the look on his face as he shot Charles Augustus Magnussen. Everything Sherlock did was to protect his family and friends. Even when Sherlock failed to see it himself, John never lost sight of his friend. It was clear to John now that his friend was trying to protect him. John thought it best to let him think that he was doing so. To his relief, Sherlock, in his preoccupied state, did not notice his intentions. John had snuck out discreetly behind him, maintaining proximity to monitor his whereabouts but just far enough to avoid detection.

Now, lifting up his own collar against the freezing London temperature, John hailed his own cab, swiftly entering its warmed interior.

"Drive."

* * *

_51.5072° N, 0.1275° W_

The coordinates led him to a deserted part of London. The cab ride had been long and Sherlock had felt strangely lonely without John's presence. Escapades were best enjoyed with a friend. However, this was no adventure. When he had received Sherrinford's message on Mycroft's phone, he had hoped for the best, but also feared the worst.

_Families stick together. _They had once made a pact, deep in the ignorance of their youth and long before they had learned to resist sentiment and its values. Yet, people change. Sherlock was afraid of what change might bring. _Caring is not an advantage. _Mycroft had once said and so each in their own ways, the years has seen the distance grow between all of them. Sherlock had made it his habit to find every reason to antagonise Mycroft, just so he could see him squirm, rebuke threatening to leave his mouth at every opportunity possible. That was the crux of their relationship over the years and oddly, Sherlock had found comfort in this disjointed idea of family.

Sherrinford and his intentions, on the other hand, remains question mark. Sherlock shivered at the realisation that he knew little more about his older brother then he did of a new client or criminal. He would be impossible to read. Much like the Irene Adler he had met, stark naked and all revealing, but elusive and troubling. _Friend or foe? _

Sherrinford was a worthy nemesis, should he choose to become one. In any case, Sherlock felt that he alone, could mediate any friction between his Mycroft and Sherrinford.

Sherlock stood now, looking at a huge expanse of abandoned wasteland, in its centre, a large steel warehouse. As if the already freezing temperature wasn't enough, Sherlock could see a huge storm cloud brewing above the London skyline. He watched as the cab disappeared around corner before slowly making his way to the warehouse entrance. His eyes surveyed the area, cataloguing any potential clues and details.

His boots crushed tall blades of grass as he walked the 50 meters to the entrance of the warehouse. Above him, the sun dipped below the horizon, sending the city into darkness. The tall warehouse door looms over of him now. With one last pause, Sherlock took a deep breath, watching his breath evaporate before him in the night air, and pushed open the heavy steel doors.

Silence greeted him.

The warehouse was pitch dark inside. Sherlock couldn't see the length of the room or where it ended, but estimated its large interior by the echoes his movements made. He stepped inside, unsure of what he would find. He turned the screen on his phone on, using it as light to guide his way.

"Hello." Sherlock said with quiet assurance. He listened as his own voice echoed his words. He moved further into the room, walking steadily inwards. There was neither doubt nor fear in his footsteps.

"Sherrinford." He said. "It's me Sherlock."

No answer.

Sherlock continued into the dark room. "Come out, Brother. We have a lot to talk about."

_Click. _Sherlock stopped. A light had suddenly turned on, illuminating an object about 20 meters away from where he was.

Squinting, Sherlock assessed the object from afar before moving towards it. It was a suitcase. It's exterior was entirely black and made of what appears to be leather. Two steel clasps joined the two edges together, a black handle in its centre. As Sherlock moved closer to the suitcase, he saw that it was locked. A pin pad sat beneath the black handle, beckoning him like a good case waiting to be solved.

Sherlock picked up the suitcase and examined it. It was surprisingly light. In fact, he wasn't sure if there was even anything in it. He took out his magnifying glass and looked intently at the pin pad. No, it gave nothing away. There were no fingerprints, oil residual, or wear and tear on any of the buttons. He would have to guess the pin code if he intended to open the suitcase.

The suitcase was for Mycroft to open. This entire set up was meant for Mycroft. What sequence of numbers or letters would only be known to him? Closing his eyes, Sherlock retreated into his mind palace. _Mycroft's birthday? _Too obvious, too easy. _Somebody else's birthday. _Birthdays are lame excuses for pass codes, Sherlock decided. Any Holmes would be above that. _His measurements? _Sherlock almost smiled as he remembered the last time he had keyed in someone's measurements into a locked safe. Sherlock pushed that distracting picture out of his head. _Significant dates? _Sherlock categorically went through every viable significant date in Mycroft's life before halting at the obvious answer. He opened his eyes and almost laughed at the revelation.

_Families do stick together after all. _

The pin code was the date the time capsule was due to be reopened. Sherlock was sure of it. The date was saturated with significance and memories, of promises begging to be kept and evoked.

Placing the suitcase onto the cold concrete ground, and with as much restraint as a child opening Christmas presents on Christmas day, Sherlock punched in the numbers.

With a click, the suitcase springs open and a cloud of dust exploded into Sherlock's face. Startled, he leans back, but not before inhaling a swirl of white particles. He coughed, but the powder only coated his airway, forcing him into a fit of coughing.

"Sherlock!" John's shout came at him from the darkness.

_Damn it, John! _

"Jo-John?" Sherlock struggled to get his breath back as coughs continued to ravage him. His airway felt like they were on fire. Alarm bells rang in his head. _Something was wrong. _He could hear John's footsteps echoing in the warehouse as he ran towards him.

"NO!" Sherlocked gasped. "John, STOP! Stay well back!" He threw his body over the suitcase, forcing it close with a loud thud.

"Are you alright?" John had paused at his request but now Sherlock could hear him hurrying towards him again. He had to stop him from coming too close to the suitcase.

_Breath. He told himself. Focus. _

Sherlock forced himself to his feet, blinking away the spots of darkness appearing before his vision.

He cleared his throat. "I'm fine." He said with as reassurance as he can muster.

"We have to leave." He said, walking away from the suitcase and towards John.

"What happened?" John was by his side, the worry obvious on his face."Are you hurt? I heard you coughing." He placed a gentle hand on Sherlock's shoulders, glancing at his friend.

Sherlock chose not to answer his question. Instead, he had some of his own to ask.

"What on earth are you doing here, John? Are you crazy? I told you to stay out of this one!" Sherlock shouted. He watched as John grimaced at the volume of his voice, but he was beyond caring. This was all wrong. He felt bitterly betrayed by his own confidence that Sherrinford's intentions were well meaning.

"I-" John was momentarily speechless at Sherlock's outburst. "I was worried about you."

"You shouldn't have. I'm perfectly fine."

"Are you really?" John shot back. "Because you aren't looking so great at the moment. And by the way, I am not staying out of anything. You need me. I'm the one who keeps you alive half the bloody time. I'm the one who shoots the cabbie so that you wouldn't be daft enough to take that stupid pill!"

_He's right, you know. _A little voice in Sherlock's head said to him. Sherlock admitted that John was probably right. His face softened as he looked at his sulking friend, who looked ready to pounce at his next words. This was a fight Sherlock was not going to win. He chose to be somewhat amicable.

"I'm fine. Happy?"

* * *

The cab ride home was a silent affair. Sherlock sat with his head resting against the cool glass of the cab window, watching as London sped past him. He watched his breath fogging up the window before evaporating in the cool night air.

"Sherlock? You sure you are alright?" John asked, sensing that Sherlock's silence was unlike his usual unspoken contemplation of a case.

"Yes, I'm fine." Sherlock felt like he was repeating himself a lot tonight.

"Did you see...Sherrinford?" John asked slowly, unsure whether he should broach the sensitive topic.

"No, there was nobody there."

"The message?"

_The message had another purpose. _Sherlock's heart was heavy with realisation. Sherrinford's purposes were clear. He had not intended to meet with Mycroft on common grounds. Sherlock had been right but for once in his life, he wished that he wasn't. Resentment was like a malignancy, snaking its way silently through one's existence, it is all consuming before one recognises its destruction. _Family sticks together. _Too bad the pact from childhood was all but forgotten. He too had forgotten. His unhuman connection to work blinding him of all else, the disconnect clear for all to see. Mycroft had been the same. They had repelled each other, like magnets of the same pole. John's appearance had changed that. Having a friend had reminded him gradually that affection and respect for another should be valued, and perhaps, even relearned.

He shook his head now, if sentiment only existed on the losing side, then the end was nigh. He had been cautious of Sherrinford's return, even suspicious of his intentions. A lot can happen in 15 years, especially alone against the bitterness of Eastern Europe. Although Sherlock resisted the imaginary of a damaged Sherrinford, he had felt it necessary to step in as the mediator. _After all, he wouldn't hurt me._

No, perhaps he wouldn't have hurt me. Sherlock thought. But the suitcase and its contents were intended for Mycroft. The knowledge sent a chill down his spine. He shivered unconsciously.

"Sherlock?" John was staring at him with a frown on his face. He had been deep in thought for too long.

"Sorry, I was distracted. Where were we?"

"The message, Sherlock. Are you sure you are alright?" John asked concerned. He noticed a faint gleam of sweat between Sherlock's brows and moved to touch his forehead. Sherlock brushed his hands away.

"The message only gave a coordinate. Nothing else."

"What do you think it means?"

"It means he never intended to see Mycroft. It was a ruse, designed to lure him to-" Sherlock paused, the words stuck in his throat. "to certain death." He finished with a whisper.

"If that's the case, then Mycroft's in danger! We have to tell-"

Sherlock's phone rang suddenly, disrupting John's speech.

"Lestrade." Sherlock said, his voice low. He listened, his brows furrowing at the words of the detective.

* * *

Their presence had been requested at a crime scene. After his phone call with Lestrade, Sherlock had ordered the cab to turn back, heading towards a part of London not frequented by the well heeled. John had observed Sherlock throughout the duration of the cab ride. He had said nothing else on the topic of Sherrinford after leaving John's mind reeling with the threat of a 3rd Holmes brother. He had sat silent, his eyes closed and his head leaning against the cab window for the remainder of the trip. A faint gleam of sweat covered his forehead, tempting John to check for a temperature but he refrained from doing so. _Stress. _He told himself. After all, family feuds were never pleasant, especially when it involves some of the greatest minds in Britain.

The cab stopped several feet away from parked police cars, flashing blue and red in the cold night air. There were police tap sectioning off the crime scene and police and forensics milling around looking for clues. Sherlock climbed swiftly out of the cab and walked into the crime scene like it was his second home. Lestrade was there to greet him.

"What have we got?" Sherlock asked.

"30 something female, found about 2 hours ago, killed with a gun wound to the head..." Lestrade went on, describing every noticeable details of the assumed homicide. John listened intently, his medical mind at work.

Sherlock stood still, his eyes cataloguing his surrounds, his nose poised, ready to detect any suspicious odour, his mind running at a hundred miles an hour. John was once again at awe at what Sherlock was capable of. Within about an hour of their arrival, Sherlock had deduced that the female had committed suicide in a bid to secure insurance money for her family.

"_This is not a murder. The gunshot wound is on the left temple. She is left handed going by the width of the fingers and the callous on that hand. Her credit cards are scratched, indicating frequent and prolonged use. There are tear streaks on her face, indicating realisation that death is near. There are no other foot prints in this area apart from ours, indicating that she was alone when she died. Only possible conclusion: Suicide." _

Another job well done. John gave himself a silent pat on the back. The next battle would be tougher and much closer to the heart. He realised, unsure whether Sherlock could take it without suffering a beating. He noticed that Sherlock was in a hurry to leave the crime scene.

They walked past Sally Donovan on their way out.

"Lucky guess again, Freak." Donovan was never satisfied without throwing in a condescending comment here and there. Although, to her credit, she had toned down her dislike of Sherlock after his apparent demise falling off the top of St Bartholomew.

"Luck has nothing to do with it." Sherlock shot back.

Suddenly Donovan's frowned and she pointed a finger at his face.

"You're bleeding." She said, surprisingly showing a little concern for the freak.

John turned around towards his friend. "Sherlock!" He said, alarmed at the trial of red moving down Sherlock's nostrils. "Your nose, you're bleeding!"

Sherlock frowned, he touched his fingers to his nose and watched perplexed as it came back saturated with bright droplets of blood. Then, without saying anything, he walked off. John started after him, almost having to run to keep up pace.

For the next 10 minutes, they walked in silence, only the sound of their heavy breathing following in their wake. John watched Sherlock as he walked ahead. His pace was quick, but his shoulders were hunched, as though they were burdened with a weight heavier then he could sustain on his own. They were several blocks from the crime scene when Sherlock suddenly stopped and whirled around to face John.

"John, this is bad." Sherlock whispered. He looked stricken. "I need your help."

"What is it?" John asked. He searched Sherlock's face for signs of trouble. Right this moment, Sherlock's face was a canvas of fear, self doubt and untamed panic.

The sky rumbled and the rain threatening to fall earlier on in the evening finally started their descent.

"I think I've been poisoned."

* * *

Thanks to those who have reviewed, followed and favorite this story but also to all my other readers. Benedict Cumberbatch is looking mighty dapper at the Met Gala 2014. If you haven't seen those pictures yet, check it out!


	5. Chapter 5

**Title: The very best of times.**

**Author: Alice**

**Disclaimer: The title is in reference to "A tale of Two cities" by Charles Dickens and it's famous first words "It was the best of times, it was the worse of times.." Also, the name Sherrinford has long been rumoured to be the 3rd Holmes brother so I take no credit for it. The creation of Sherlock Holmes of course belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and it's current popular incarnation, to the crew of BBC.**

**Rating: T**

**Summary: A third Holmes brother is revealed but his past as well as his present motivations are questionable and dangerous. Can Mycroft and Sherlock trust him? When Sherlock is poisoned, he and John must work against time to find an antidote before time runs out. What role does Sherrinford Holmes play in Sherlock's potential demise? Read if you enjoy Bromance. No Slash.**

* * *

**Chapter 5**

_Beep. Beep. Beep. _

Three distinct high frequency beeps on a remote device indicated to Sherrinford Holmes that the suitcase had been activated. He realised its finality.

_Mycroft Holmes is no more. _

Smoke escaped his parted lips as he let himself fall back against the spine of his chair, cigarette in one hand. He looked up at the overhead light and watched as the shadows danced in his darkened room. He chuckled, his laughter low and rumbling.

"Good bye, brother." His laughter became louder until it filled the small space it occupied. Yet, he did not feel the relief he had expected. Instead, Sherrinfold was angry to find that tears were stinging his eyes, and that his world was blurring before him. He cursed the conflict of feelings battling within him.

His computer screen suddenly lit up and another beep announced the arrival of a new mail in his inbox.

Turning to his computer, Sherrinford clicked into the email and read its contents. The message was short and succinct, summarising the night's activities in two sentences.

_Mission Accomplished. _

_Expect 1 million pounds to be transferred into your account tonight. _

_M_

1 million pounds. Mycroft Holme's life was worth a lot to some, but to him, any financial gains from his actions tonight suddenly seemed trivial. Sherrinford knew without doubt that Mycroft would not have been deceived if his name had not been implicated. He had been a passive participant in his brother's demise. It meant little to Sherrinford that he did not actively seek to have Mycroft killed, that the poisoned were not procured by him. In standing aside and allowing this to happen, he had provided the necessary tools to have Mycroft Holmes killed. A name and a date, significant to those who cared, was all the ammunition required.

Yes, he was a willing participant. He alone was responsible for Mycroft's impending death. The knowledge frightened him and sent a chill down his spine. _What would Sherlock think? Can he bear the loss of another brother? _

Sherrinford clicked the reply button on his screen. It was to be his last response. In this moment, 1 million pounds meant nothing to him.

_No deal. _

_SH_

With that, he turned from his computer.

The longest chapter of his life was now closed. For 15 years, he had lived with both pride and resentment, each at odds with his desire for relative normality. He had finally accomplished the impossible. He had exacted his revenge. Mycroft Holmes would pay for leaving him, for abandoning the trust between them, for denying him the normal, mundane life of other humans. It seemed petty now but Sherrinford did not allow himself the luxury of regret.

* * *

It was a strange sight, two men, one much taller than the other, standing in the middle of a London street, having a rather heated conversation with each other. The streets were sparse as few people had ventured outside in fear of the impending storm.

The sky rumbled overhead, followed seconds later by a strike of lighting. It lit up the dark night, casting strange shadows on Sherlock Holme's face. John Watson looks at this same face now, not quite taking in what he had just heard.

"What? What did you just say?" John asked. His eyes searched Sherlock's face, desperate for clues that what he just heard was not real.

"I've been poisoned, John." Sherlock's jaw was tense. The skies opened up above them and rain fell in tiny droplets onto his shoulder, creating a shimmer of diamonds on his coat. A tremor ran through his body.

John shook his head in disbelief. "Oh god, Sherlock...How? When?"

"At the warehouse. I believe airborne toxins coated the interior of the suitcase. I inhaled it when I decoded the lock." Sherlock said, somewhat relieved at the opportunity to offload the knowledge of his potential mortality. He has had many proud moments in the past. Moments where arrogance and over confidence had prevented him from admitting to mistakes and asking for help when it was required. Now was not the time to be proud. Alone does not protect him. Friends do.

"I can't believe this." John exclaimed, he looked frantically around him, feeling completely lost. "Shit. What do we do?" He grabbed Sherlock by the shoulders. "We need to tell Mycroft."

Sherlock's response was calmer. "Not yet."

"What do you mean, not yet? You've been bloody poisoned! Also, don't forget that Sherrinford's target was Mycroft, not you."

"Yes, that is concerning." Sherlock closed his eyes, a little longer than usual before opening them again to look at John.

"Do you think Mycroft is still in danger?" John asked.

Sherlock shook his head. "No. He thinks Mycroft is the one poisoned."

Once again, John was astounded by Sherlock's indifference. Did he not realise that his life was on the line? He on the other hand felt utterly lost, terrified at the prospect of losing his best friend. John felt panicked; he did not have a single idea of how to help Sherlock.

"Ok, but that doesn't really help us."

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something but John did not let his next words out. "Ok, look at you. You're not well. You're shaking. You've had a blood nose, you were coughing before-We need to get you to the hospital. Let's go." John turned, grabbing Sherlock's arms and pulling him towards the curb.

"John, stop." Sherlock said gently. He placed a firm hand on John's grip on his coat. "Let's be methodical about this. Hospitals cannot help me at this stage. Their guidelines and protocols will keep me imprisoned as a patient. I would have no ground or resources to do my own research and analysis." He took a deep breath. "The only way I will survive this is if I can find the antidote. I need time and space. I need to be at Baker St."

"Sherlock, you will deteriorate. We have no idea what the trajectory of this toxin is. We don't know what symptoms will arise, how fast acting it is, whether it's fatal. I don't have access to oxygen, to IVs, to advance life support..." John said in exasperation.

"We will go to hospital when I require supportive therapy." Sherlock said with as much assurance as he can muster. "In the mean time, go to your clinic tomorrow and obtain some equipment for venepuncture. I want you to take a sample of my blood and give it to Molly to test."

"What else? What else can I do?"

"Buy me some takeaway Chinese. I'm hungry." Sherlock said, offering a small smile. More than any other time in his life, Sherlock Holmes needed fuel, energy to fight on. Also, he knew that it would make John happy. They watched silently as a cab turned the corner, Sherlock lifted his long arms, beckoning it to stop.

John watched as Sherlock got in, his movements requiring noticeably more effort than usual. He felt as though his heart was stuck in his throat, making his airways feel tight. He stared intently at Sherlock the entire trip home, not once letting his eyes leave his subject of interest. Sherlock seem to be avoiding his eyes and was as he often would be, silent and pensive. When they finally arrived outside 221B Baker Street, it was Sherlock who departed the cab first, leaving John to pay the fare. He had opened the front door and disappeared inside before John had even stepped out of the vehicle.

John thundered up the stairs. "Let me check your vital signs." He said to Sherlock who had just hung up his coat and taken off his scarf.

"John..." Sherlock started to protest.

"If you insist on staying at home against medical advice, I would at least like to know when you start to deteriorate. " John replied, matter of fact. "Sherlock, please."

With a sigh, Sherlock gave in and sat down on his chair, letting his arms rest against the side of the chair so that John could take his blood pressure.

John took his notebook out and began writing.

_7/1/14-2215. 4 hours post exposure to toxin. _

_T-37 BP-120/70 HR-65 RR 16_

_Blood nose, Intermittent sweating and tremors. Motor skills intact. Nil significant impairments. _

John's own heart rate slowed slightly when he noted that Sherlock's vital signs were normal. For now, he was satisfied that his friend's health was at least stable. As per Sherlock's earlier request, John went to get some takeaway Chinese. When he returned, he found Sherlock with piles of chemistry, biochemistry and toxicology books surrounding him. He also had his laptop opened and was feverishly fleeting between the two.

"Anything?" John asked hopefully. Perhaps Sherlock Holmes could prove to be as amazing as he always is with solving cases and prevent his own murder.

Sherlock shook his head, as he flipped through the pages of his toxicology text book. "No. However, the poison is slow acting; I may have a few days before I'm dead. " He looked up at John who looked stricken, the Chinese takeaway still in his hand, and realised that he should not have been blaze about his own impending death. "We need to be patient. The symptoms I'm having are too vague; it could be one of a hundred other poisons. We have to wait for more symptoms to come up before I can narrow our search corridor."

"Are you certain the hospital won't have the antidote?"

"Yes, this is Sherrinford we're dealing with. He would not have made this easy."

They worked well into the night and the early hours of the morning. Sherlock nibbled on some Chinese but his efforts were half hearted and John felt that he ate only to make him feel better. The Chinese remained mostly uneaten by the early hours of the morning, cold and forgotten on the desk next to Sherlock. John busied himself around Sherlock, checking his temperature, pulse, blood pressure and respiratory rate every 2 hours and documenting the findings in his notebook. When he wasn't checking his vitals, John found himself watching Sherlock silently, almost afraid to take his eyes off the detective. The night felt incredibly long. At 0400 in the morning, John jolted awake, dismayed to find that he had let himself fall asleep. He looked over at Sherlock and found his seat empty.

"Sherlock?" John looked around the room but saw no signs of the detective. Out of the corner of his eyes, he noticed the ajar bathroom door. The light was on inside. As he walked closer, John heard heavy breathing coming from inside. John pushed the door open.

Sherlock was inside. He was sitting on the cool tiled floor. He's eyes were closed, his head and back resting against the wall. A faint sheen of sweat was evident on his face. Sherlock's eyes opened as John walked closer.

"I'm fine." Sherlock said slowly. "Was just a bit nauseous." He gave a faint smile. "We can add that to the list of symptoms."

John took a long look at his friend, at his lean frame and pallor skin and the sweat gathering on his face. There was little else he could do to help. He knelt down next to Sherlock and hooked his arms underneath the detective's, helping him to his feet. "Come on, you clot. Let's get you to bed."

In this instance where time was what they lacked, sleep seems so trivial but maybe, it was just what they all needed.

* * *

Sunlight pierced through a gap in the curtains, its brightness falling on Sherlock Holme's face, rousing him from troubled slumber. He rolled over in bed, one hand reaching up to touch his forehead. Sherlock took a moment to assess the physical progression of the toxin.

He had a headache. The undeniable heaviness and pounding was focused on his frontal lobe. The light shining through the window only worsened his headache and he blinked, squinting his eyes whilst holding out one hand to block the piercing sunlight. _Photophobia. _Sherlock thought, adding another symptom onto his list. Additionally, the waves of nausea from last night remained. Sherlock went to stand up, feeling dizzy at the sudden change from horizontal to vertical. He clutched the side of bedside table to steady himself. Gaining balance, he walked into the living room to find John already awake. He looked at the clock. It was 0800-they had slept all of 4 hours.

"I got up early to sneak some equipment home from the clinic. Sit down; I'll take some blood for analysis." John said, indicating to Sherlock's chair.

Sherlock sat down obligingly. He winced as the tourniquet went on and the needle pierced his skin. _Hypersensitivity. _He noted another symptom.

John withdrew the needle with expert hands, several tubes of dark crimson liquid now in his possession. He stood up.

"I'll run this to Molly for analysis. How are you feeling this morning?"

_Shit._

"Not bad."

"Let me take your vital signs again." John moved quickly, expertly taking his temperature, pulse and blood pressure, processing the findings in his own mind, before looking at him anxiously.

"What's the damage?"

"Well, you're still haemodynamically stable. However, there is a marked increase in your HR from 65 to 80 and you've now got a low grade temp of 37.4."

Sherlock nodded. The medical terms and the normal range in vital signs were not beyond him. He watched as John got up to leave, walking briskly out the door to deliver his blood to Molly for analysis. He was glad that John had found a purpose, something he was comfortable in doing under the circumstances. When he had asked John for help last night, Sherlock only knew that he couldn't do this alone. Now, he feared the burden he had placed on his friend. John had watched him die once already and now Sherlock was asking him to do it all over again. He couldn't do that to John. When the time comes and all else fails, maybe it was best if John, or Mycroft, or anybody else, were not present to see him pass. It was unlikely to be pleasant.

Sherlock shook the horrid thought from his mind. Wincing at the ever persistent headache, he pushed himself up from his chair. A wave of nausea washed over him and this time, he almost blacked out as the dizziness overcame him. Sherlock took several moments to regain his composure, before finally standing up tall.

He had work to do.

* * *

"Sir. There's been a security breach on your phone."

Mycroft looked up from his documents and frowned. It was routine for the mobile phones of senior government officials such as himself to be scanned and analysed daily in case of hacking and potential security breaches. His phone had not been returned to him from Baker Street until yesterday afternoon, thus, missing the security checks from the day before.

Knowing the impending threat of Sherrinford Holmes, the SIS had increased security around him. It was all futile. Mycroft secretly thought. You cannot stop a Holmes with mere brute. It would be a battle of intellect.

Mycroft held out his right hand, grasping the phone as it was placed in his palm.

"Who is the culprit?" Mycroft asked, disinterested. Weekly attempts were made to hack into his phone. There was no reason to believe that this was anything but.

Anthea handed him two pieces of paper.

A picture of Sherlock Holmes stared back at him, frozen in time. He appeared to be looking at something intently.

Mycroft looked at the second piece of paper.

_Tomorrow, 1800._

_51.5072° N, 0.1275° W_

_SH_

"This message was deleted off your phone at 2317 2 days ago. And that-" Anthea said, pointing to the picture of Sherlock, taken automatically by his smart phone when a recognisable break in security was identified. "-Is our guy."

A million thoughts ran through Mycroft's mind. His phone. He had left his phone at Baker Street on Sherlock's birthday. His stupid clot of a brother had decided it was in his best interest to sneaky beak a top secret mobile phone. There were strong words to be had with Sherlock, Mycroft decided. However, the content of the message was far more intriguing. The message was signed off with Sherlock's initials but somehow, Mycroft knew that the message wasn't sent by him.

"Do we have the coordinates of the sender's location?" Mycroft asked.

Perhaps it was a better approach to meet his end, then to have his end meet him. Mycroft Holmes was sick of this waiting game. It was time for a meeting with Sherrinford Holmes.

* * *

Enjoy.

I'm in need of some good Sherlock fan fiction to read. Can everyone recommend some good ones for me to read? Will be greatly appreciated.


	6. Chapter 6

**Title: The very best of times.**

**Author: Alice**

**Disclaimer: The title is in reference to "A tale of Two cities" by Charles Dickens and it's famous first words "It was the best of times, it was the worse of times.." Also, the name Sherrinford has long been rumoured to be the 3rd Holmes brother so I take no credit for it. The creation of Sherlock Holmes of course belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and it's current popular incarnation, to the crew of BBC.**

**Rating: T**

**Summary: A third Holmes brother is revealed but his past as well as his present motivations are questionable and dangerous. Can Mycroft and Sherlock trust him? When Sherlock is poisoned, he and John must work against time to find an antidote before time runs out. What role does Sherrinford Holmes play in Sherlock's potential demise? Read if you enjoy Bromance. No Slash.**

* * *

**Chapter 6**

The apartment where Sherrinford Holmes resides is located on the outskirts of central London. A skyscraper, looming above all else. Mycroft Holmes stood in its shadow, his umbrella in one hand as he contemplated his next move. The coordinates have not been hard to track. Was he careless? Or did he intend to be found? The last 15 years have culminated to this moment. He walked through the revolving front doors of the lavish building, leaving any protection behind. If the man was afraid, he did not show it.

He arrived on the 25th floor of the building, entering a long corridor before stopping at a burgundy door. Mycroft stood in its doorway, his hands poised to press the door bell. He straightened his suit, readying himself.

The door opened before he had a chance to press the doorbell, and it was as though this was all meant to be. Nothing can really prepare you for the best and worst day of your life.

Sherrinford Holmes stood in the doorway staring back at him. His mouth opened, but no words came out.

Memories and disjointed thoughts flashed through Mycroft's mind, traversing his mind palace, all coming to a head at the entrance of his subconsciousness. There were a thousand things he'd like to say but not one word came out. He knew that his brother was feeling the same.

Finally, it was Sherrinford who spoke. "**"**Well, this is unexpected."

"Hello Sherrinford." Mycroft surveyed his brother. His eyes running over him from head to toe, cataloguing every detail. Time has not been kind to him; he looked older than his years. Sherrinford was the same height as him, but his hunched shoulders appear to make him shorter. Mycroft also noted a significant history of multiple broken bones and fractures, none of which were life threatening. _They would have hurt...a lot. _ Nonetheless, no Holmes was known to dress down for the occasion. Like Sherlock and himself, Sherrinford also has a preference for designer suits and outerwear.

"I see the years haven't treated you too badly." Mycroft said, looking around at the lavish apartment.

The door shut behind Mycroft as Sherrinford turned to walk back into the room. "I'm not in the business of pleasantries."

"Right. It's down to business, as always." Mycroft walked into the centre of the large living. His eyes surveyed the room before resting on a half packed suitcase on the king size bed. Sherrinford had intended to leave.

"I hear on the grapevine that attempts will be made on my life. I hope I am wrong in suspecting that my assassination will be in your hands." Mycroft continued. "Families are all that we have, after all."

There was a long silence, pregnant with unspoken words. When Sherrinford spoke, Mycroft could hear bitterness in his voice. "I have no family. Mycroft, you made sure of that 15 years ago."

"That is not true." Mycroft said slowly but firmly. He gestured to a chair. "Perhaps it would be beneficial for both of us to have a conversation."

"That will not be necessary." Sherrinford spat. ""Time is precious, Mycroft. You should value the time you have."

"Is that a threat?"

"Take it as you will."

"15 years, Sherrinford. It's been 15 years since we last saw you. Mother misses you. Even now, she craves any knowledge of your existence. As long as you were still alive...she had hope. Christmas is the hardest. There is always your favourite dessert, even if none of us care much for it. Father is the same, although, he expresses his emotions in a more discreet way. I see it in his silence whenever there is mention of you. I see it in his eyes when he glances at a family photo. As for our little brother, wel,l Sherlock has really grown up."

Sherrinford made no attempt to stop him, so Mycroft continued. "He calls himself the world's only consulting detective. He's not half bad at his job. Scotland Yard makes regular use of him. Does nothing to tame his ego I must say. The only person he really listens to is a man called John Watson-" He saw the look on Sherrinford's face. "No, no. Not what you think. John Watson is his friend, flatmate, assistant and occasionally, his moral compass."

Sherrinford was silent as he processed the information given. His lower lips moved several times as if wanting to say something but he stopped himself before any words left his mouth.

Mycroft continued his monologue. "Sherrinford, it would be an understatement to say that you have been missed. London is home. Why not grace us with your return?"

Finally, Sherrinford spoke. His words were slow and deliberate. "I'm afraid you have underestimated my actions, most of which have fallen under your radar. While my brothers have been out saving the world, the same cannot be said about my behaviour. Unfortunately, there is no turning back for me; you made sure of that, Mycroft."

"Your disassociation from MI6 was not my intention."

"You left me to DIE."

"I thought you were ready for the mission. I believed there were no immediate threats to your life."

In two quick strides, Sherrinford was face to face with him. Mycroft felt his back against the wall as he staggered backwards. Mycroft would never forget the look on his face. "MYCROFT, I was just a boy. How could you have not seen that? Or were you so clouded by your own magnificence that you saw nobody else. By leaving me, you might as well have fed me to the dogs personally." Sherrinford spat. "I trusted you and you failed me. I lost everything."

Mycroft looked shattered. "I didn't know. I calculated the possibilities but I failed to foresee this outcome." _It was his fault. All his fault._ "I'm sorry, had I known...What can I do?"

Sherrinfords next words were like a knife through his heart. Yes, strangely enough, he had one, a heart that is. "Pain, Mycroft. Only your pain can start to help ease mine."

"Is that why you intend to have me killed? Is that it? Revenge? Would my death make you feel better? Would it really?"

"Yes." Sherrinford hissed, his eyes remained ice cold. He turned away from Mycroft, looking instead at the lights of the dying sun. His lavish apartment afforded him a nice view of the sunset. "Goodbye, brother. "

_That's it? This is it? _For several moments, Mycroft stood, transfixed to the spot. He had entered the building, unsure whether he would come out alive, and now his brother was merely bidding him farewell without so much as a gun pointed at his head. The meeting seemed too final. So many things were left unspoken; so many questions of the past remain unresolved. Perhaps his end was still nigh, silently waiting for the right opportunity. Mycroft turned to leave, but stopped. He had one last thing to say.

"I am sorry I missed our meeting last night."

Sherrinford whirled around and stared at him.

"What?"

Talking about Sherlock afforded them more conversation. Mycroft was glad of this fact. "Sherlock, the idiot, he deleted your message. I have yet to have a stern word with him."

"NO!" Sherrinford was once again meters from his face. "The suitcase-it was activated!"

Mycroft frowned, he was utterly confused now. "What suitcase? What are you talking about?"

"Have you heard from Sherlock today?"

"No-"

"Take me to him."

* * *

Sherlock was working hard. Far too hard. John observed.

He didn't rest. He didn't eat. He barely spoke. John knew he was fighting for his life and he was doing it alone. It was wrong. John thought. Sherlock had him, but he alone was not enough to help in finding the antidote. John wished desperately that he could enlist the help of Mycroft, or Lestrade or even Molly. God, he would even be grateful if dear Mrs Hudson was in on the secret, if only to ease the burden on him alone.

Sherlock continued to dance between his computer and various toxicology books. Occasionally he would move swiftly behind his microscope in the kitchen to examine droplets of his own blood. The liver lay forgotten in the fridge, his old experiments abandoned.

John looked down at the notebook in his lap and at Sherlock's last set of vitals.

_T-37.8 HR-105. BP-100/60. RR-22._

They weren't good. He noted increased cardiovascular effort and respiratory demand, signs that Sherlock was becoming haemodynamically unstable. Sherlock was also running of temperature.

John had asked Molly to email him a copy of the blood results; giving a pathetic excuse about the owner of the vials of blood. John looked over the lab results now and his heart sank. Sherlock's haemoglobin was falling. His liver functions were going off as were his kidneys. There was no doubt in his mind that Sherlock Holmes, the great consulting detective, was dying.

"Drink." John said, offering Sherlock a cup of tea. Sherlock nodded but did not look up from his laptop. "Sherlock, you're running a fever. You need to stay hydrated to keep going."

Sherlock looked up from his computer now, his face flushed with fever. "It's a neurotoxin. My symptoms are congruent with inhibition of sodium channel function, thus eliminating the functional capacity of neuron communication."

John nodded. "That's great but there are hundreds of neurotoxins. We need to be more specific. Are you able to narrow it down?"

"Not yet, but I suspect that-" Sherlock stopped, his eyes unfocused and he swayed dangerously, almost falling. At the last moment, he found the edge of the kitchen table, his grip on it turning his knuckles white. John was by his side in an instance. "I've got you." Sherlock was leaning heavily on him.

"John, the bathr-" Sherlock gasped.

They barely made it to the toilet bowl before Sherlock heaved and vomited unceremoniously.

John watched as he struggled for breath. He must have looked worried because Sherlock opened his eyes and said. "Don't stare. I'm ok, really."

"You're dying, Sherlock."

"We are all dying, in some ways. It is inevitable."

"Yes, Sherlock. When we're eighty and warm in our beds. Not like this."

"We can't always choose the way we go."

Sherlock turned his head slightly towards the door. Even when unwell, he was more perceptive then most. "Help me up, John. I can hear Mycroft coming. No doubt, to annoy me about his stupid phone. He mustn't know the truth."

Even as Sherlock Holmes sat, as upright as he could in his chair, he looked pale. John wondered if his paleness would escape the sharp eyes of Mycroft. John watched as he appeared at the doorway, looking rather tense. He saw Sherlock but no observations were made of his current state of health.

"Mycroft, to what do I owe the pleasure of your presence?" Sherlock asked, maintaining a certain arrogance in his voice.

"Sherlock, we have a visitor."

A man John had never seen before emerged from the shadows. Based on Sherlock and Mycroft's behaviour, he can only deduce that it was the infamous Sherrinford Holmes.

"Hello, Sherlock."

Sherlock stood up so quickly John thought he would fall. Somehow, he managed to look almost normal, but John saw the slightly unsteady way he stood, the mild tremors in his hands as he hastily hid them behind his back.

"Sherrinford." Sherlock looked both alarmed and exhilarated. He looked frantically between Mycroft and Sherrinford and the small distance that separated them. John could almost read his mind. _Is Mycroft in danger? _

Nonetheless, the almost civil nature of this meeting had an unusual effect on Sherlock. It seemed to John that he had more energy that he had had 10 minutes ago, half collapsed against the wall of the bathroom.

He took several strides and stood between Mycroft and Sherrinford.

"Why are you here?" Sherlock said. His voice was firm, demanding an answer from his Sherrinford. He stood in front of Mycroft, almost as if to protect him. "What have you done to him?"

Sherrinford, it seems had an equally strong resolve. "Nothing, I haven't done anything. Sherlock, this is important. Did you go to the coordinates I sent to Mycroft last night?"

Sherlock did not answer.

"Can anyone tell me what is going on?" Mycroft was for once the one in the dark and he did not like it.

"He tried to kill you!" Sherlock's voice was rising. John was tempted to step forward and calm the detective but he stopped at himself. The Holmes were about to have a domestic and there was little he could do to prevent it.

"Sherlock, I think that still remains in the future tense. I am still alive and well." Mycroft offered helpfully.

Sherlock took a long look at Mycroft, cataloguing his appearance. Satisfied that there were no outward signs of injury or harm, he breathed a sigh of relief.

"Good." He turned his attention back to Sherrinford. "Thank you for the birthday card but if I were to make a deduction about the sender, it would be the observation that certain dates are significant and not easily forgotten. I'd say that sentiment got to you. That is clearly evident by the code you choose to use."

John saw the sweat gathering on Sherlock's brows, saw the tremors in his hands before anyone else did. He took a step closer to the consulting detective.

"Sherlock..."

"Shut up, John."

"If you were so keen on murder, why not do it quickly? A gunshot to the head would be much cleaner and more efficient. Why give him a chance?" Sherlock's voice was low, his words directed only at Sherrinford.

He swayed on his feet and this time Mycroft and Sherrinford both noticed. Mycroft placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulders. "Alright?"

"I'm fine, fine, FINE!" Sherlock hissed, agitated. He was pale, paler then Mrs Hudson's finest china.

"Last night-you were there." Sherrinford said. This time, it was a statement. John noticed that he looked shattered.

Sherlock turned to his other brother, his answer was a whisper but they all heard him. "You know the answer-that is why you're here."

Sherlock closed his eyes, his chest heaved with effort as he took several deep breaths. When he opened his eyes again, they were unfocused. He gave a moan, signalling his distress. Mycroft caught him before John could. Almost as though in slow motion, Sherlock Holmes, all 6 foot of him, fell unceremoniously into his brother's arms.

* * *

Ciao. Please review. Thanks for all the fanfic recommendations!


	7. Chapter 7

**Title: The very best of times.**

**Author: Alice**

**Disclaimer: The title is in reference to "A tale of Two cities" by Charles Dickens and it's famous first words "It was the best of times, it was the worse of times.." Also, the name Sherrinford has long been rumoured to be the 3rd Holmes brother so I take no credit for it. The creation of Sherlock Holmes of course belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and it's current popular incarnation, to the crew of BBC.**

**Rating: T**

**Summary: A third Holmes brother is revealed but his past as well as his present motivations are questionable and dangerous. Can Mycroft and Sherlock trust him? When Sherlock is poisoned, he and John must work against time to find an antidote before time runs out. What role does Sherrinford Holmes play in Sherlock's potential demise? Read if you enjoy Bromance. No Slash.**

* * *

**Chapter 7**

Mycroft Holmes was not one to panic. It was just not in his personality. After all, a clear head is required to run the British government. He remembers only panicking once in his lifetime. When he was 15 years old, Sherlock, 7 years his junior, had jumped into the rapids of a swollen creek after their family dog, Redbeard. At the time, Sherlock had not yet mastered swimming, least of all, against cold and treacherous waters. Mycroft had jumped into the water, ignoring the bitter cold, as he fought against the powerful surge of flood water. It had taken what felt like a lifetime to locate his younger brother, unconscious and battered, almost invisible underneath the white water. Sherlock had of course survived, but Redbeard had not. Sherlock had never forgiven him for loosing his beloved dog.

His mind has been unusually haphazard that day. Seeing Sherrinford again had been a distraction, impairing his observation. He should have noted that something was not quite right with Sherlock. He should have seen the unsteady way he stood, his fingers clutching the doorframe to steady himself. The palor in his skin was evident to him now, the flush of fever a stark contrast on his deathly pale skin. Sherlock chest continued to heave with obvious effort and his eyes fluttered rapidly behind his closed eyelids but refused to open.

"Sherlock!" Mycroft yelled as he cradled Sherlock's head in the crook of his arms. He brushed a strand of dark curl away from his face and felt the dampness of sweat on his skin.

A string of profanities escaped his mouth as he looked in dismay at his brother, pale, clammy and limp in his arms. He turned to John Watson for answers. John looked back at him in despair, yet he did not seem surprised.

He knew.

Mycroft was on the verge of entering his own mind palace, however, something told him that the answers would not be lcoated there. What did he miss? How could he have not seen this coming? Had the threat of his own demise clouded his judgement in such a way that he did not foresee that Sherlock was in harm's way?

Mycroft watched as John examined Sherlock, his medical mind at work, his brows wrinkled with worry, his lips pursed. He pressed his fingers against Sherlock's wrist, finding his pulse. A hand held gently against his brother's forehead measured his temperature, John's hands lingering a little longer than required, perhaps in hopes of instilling comfort to his unconscious friend.

This whole time, Sherrinford had remained silent. His hands had moved to support Sherlock as he had collapsed, a gasp inadvertently escaping his lips as the events had unfolded. Mycroft's eyes met Sherrinford's and he was perplexed when his brother looked away, avoiding his gaze. Mycroft blinked, rapidly trying to process this information but ashamedly, not quite sure what this all meant.

Mycroft could not stand not knowing any longer.

"Dr Watson, pray tell me, what is wrong with my brother?"

A pause from John. It did not escape Mycroft.

"Exhaustion. His vital signs are unstable, but he has spontaneous respiratory effort and his pulse is strong. We need to keep him in the recovery position until he wakes."

John moved to retrieve a cushion and they rested Sherlock's head against it's softness, turning his body so that he laid on his left. Mycroft took of his suit jacket, placing it gently over Sherlock.

Mycroft was not sold on John's explanation. He frowned. Something was not adding up.

"Exhaustion, Dr Watson? My brother does not suffer from exhaustion. You know the life he has led and not once had he succumbed . You know that, and I know that. Now what are you not telling me?"

He saw John look at Sherrinford, a silent exchange in process. He made a deduction.

"It's you." He said to Sherrinford. A horror washed over him, a feeling he had never had the displeasure of experiencing before. He had shamefully feared for his life when he was informed of Sherrinford's involvement in his assassination, but never, had he considered that Sherlock may be implicated. "What have you done?"

Sherrinford glared back at him, his jaws clenched but said nothing.

"WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?" Before he could stop himself, Mycroft felt himself charge at Sherrinford, his normal composure all but lost. Sherrinford sprawled back against the floor but he made no effort to defend himself.

"He was poisoned." It was John who broke the news. A coldness snaked into Mycroft's heart, and he felt his throat constrict and fear wash over him. He looked unbelievingly at Sherlock, lying on his side, his own suit jacket covering his still form.

Mycroft stilled. He released Sherrinford's shirt, and sat back in resignation. "Poisoned? Under what circumstances?"

"He came across a text message sent to your mobile phone. He deduced that Sherrinford had sent it, and that it was potentially dangerous for you to attend to personally. He went in your place, I guess he was hoping for a better outcome." John said.

Mycroft closed his eyes, his shoulders suddenly heavy with realisation. His eyes opened and he looked at Sherlock's still form. _Sherlock, you stupid idiot. Where was your judgment? Your caution? Have you no fear? If you had feared for my safety enough to prevent my involvement, then why have you neglected your own wellbeing? Caring is not an advantage. Have I not taught you enough over these years? _

"It was meant for me." Mycroft finally said, directing his words at Sherrinford. "The message, the coordinates and the suitcase you spoke of earlier, they were intended for my demise."

Sherrinford nodded, his tone was grave when he spoke. "Naturally. I would never think to harm Sherlock."

"Then you should have done your job properly." Mycroft said bitterly, forgetting that his own mortality had been on the line. Now he was alive and well, and his little brother was dying.

"A clean job, that was all you had to do. You, of all people, possess the unique ability to threaten my life. The only one who can come close to killing me. Where is your finesse? Why, when killing me, your ultimate objective, is so paramount, how can you fail under these circumstances? Your plan was full of loop holes. Sherlock was a fool. Sentiment got the better of him."

Sherrinford's eyes were cold and calculated. He spoke with years of repressed anger and resentment. "Yes, you're right. I should have done the job properly. I should have held a gun to your head and pulled the trigger myself."

"Shut up." A quiet voice said.

It was John. He had had remained silent during their heated exchange, choosing to sit by Sherlock, monitoring his vital signs.

"SHUT UP!" John said, even louder. "Stop your incessant bickering. We need the antidote. Sherlock will die without it. He is already dying."

There was a long silence before Sherrinford finally spoke. "I'm sorry." His voice was soft, quiet, barely audible.

Mycroft pressed on, not taking in Sherrinford's words. "The antidote Sherrinford, you can have anything you desire. Even my life. You can still rectify this, please, save him." Was he begging? Mycroft wasn't quite sure whether he had begged for anything in his life. Now however, nothing was stopping him from doing all that he could to save Sherlock's life.

"I'm sorry." Sherrinford repeated.

Mycroft was alarmed to find that he looked utterly devastated. Nonetheless, he failed to hear or understand what Sherrinford was saying.

"Excuse me?"

"You don't know it. You don't have the antidote." A quiet voice said. Unbeknownst to the three of them, Sherlock had regained consciousness and had been watching them quietly.

"Sherlock-" John began, relief and worry written all over his face, but a nod from Sherlock was all it took to silence him.

"Apologies for the dramatics." Sherlock said as he slowly lifted his beaten body off the ground. Mycroft instinctively used his hands to guide him, his heart ladened with fear as he noted the effort Sherlock required to sit upright again. His transport was failing him.

Sherlock took a deep breath before starting, his face grimacing in pain. 'Sentiment, Sherrinford, got the better of you. You aim to have Mycroft killed and yet, you managed to use the most inefficient way possible-poison and a slow acting one. You gave him a chance, a chance to find the antidote. That to me, speaks volumes of both your intentions and the reasons holding you back." He paused, looking solely at Sherrinford."However, you do not possess the antidote, nor do you know where or what it is. Am I correct?" Sherlock said, his judgment and observation least clouded at this point in time. Mycroft turned to Sherlock in disbelief, his eyes subsequently moving to Sherrinford, waiting for his reply.

It was a long time before Sherrinford responded to Sherlock's words. When he spoke again, his voice was grave. "No...unfortunately, in this case, I was not an active participant in Mycroft's assassination. My name was used as they believed, not wrongly so, that the mention of my name alone would be sufficient in upsetting the carefully set up network of protection surrounding him. I suggested the method of assassination and was instrumental in setting up the suitcase and the lock you decoded, however I have no knowledge of the poison used. They were meticulous in avoiding my input or any knowledge in regards to this matter." He looked at Sherlock with unspoken regret in his eyes. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. I did not intend for you to be involved."

Sherlock closed his eyes, a soft sigh escaping him. When he opened his eyes again, his gaze met John's and then Mycroft's and his lips moved upwards, as if to reassure them. "It's ok. Back to plan A."

It seems that he was taking the news better than any of them.

* * *

Sorry for the prolong wait for this chapter. Life got busy and I lost a bit of motivation. Thanks for the continued reviews as they really helped to motivate me to write again. Please review.


	8. Chapter 8

**Title: The very best of times.**

**Author: Alice**

**Disclaimer: The title is in reference to "A tale of Two cities" by Charles Dickens and it's famous first words "It was the best of times, it was the worse of times.." Also, the name Sherrinford has long been rumoured to be the 3rd Holmes brother so I take no credit for it. The creation of Sherlock Holmes of course belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and it's current popular incarnation, to the crew of BBC.**

**Rating: T**

**Summary: A third Holmes brother is revealed but his past as well as his present motivations are questionable and dangerous. Can Mycroft and Sherlock trust him? When Sherlock is poisoned, he and John must work against time to find an antidote before time runs out. What role does Sherrinford Holmes play in Sherlock's potential demise? Read if you enjoy Bromance. No Slash.**

* * *

**Chapter 8**

"Plan A. What exactly is your plan?" Mycroft asked dubiously.

Sherlock sighed, even rolling his eyes in his moment of disgust. He propped himself up against the wall and then stood up, swaying slightly until he found his armchair. He noticed John, Mycroft and Sherrinford all move towards him as he stood, offering their bodies as cushions in case he passes out again. Thankfully, he did not. He was however, becoming short of breath-another symptom to add to the ever expanding list.

"I-" Sherlock took several deep, measured breath before continuing. "I continue as though you and Sherrinford have not entered the picture. That is, John and I will carry on searching for a cure."

Mycroft and Sherrinford both frowned at him. It did not take a genius to work out that they were brothers. John on the other hand remained passive, his face expressionless. Sherlock knew that he probably felt compelled to say a great many things, including the acceptance of any medical, federal, or supernatural assistance, but he did not. Their eyes met and Sherlock thanked him silently for not interfering. Mycroft however, was not so easily swayed.

"Right. You and which army?" Mycroft challenged with his lips pursed, lines wrinkled his forehead. "Brother dear, I don't need to remind you that you have been poisoned and frankly, time is running out. If you are to survive this, it would be with my assistance." He looked at Sherrinford. "And his, if he is willing."

Sherrinford nodded, but not without some hesitation. "If you'll have me." He said slowly. "Sherlock, when I abandoned my post with M16, I did not intend to ever return. However, your life is more important to me than anything else. Mycroft and I will put our differences aside, but with one purpose only. That is, to save your life."

Sherlock considered this proposition. There are ever evolving and likely countless numbers of toxins in the world. Currently, he had narrowed the identity of the toxin to one that is neurologically destructive. So far, the progression of his symptoms has led him to believe that the neurotoxin responsible was one of 10 possibilities. However, the subclass of neurotoxin was still unknown. Given the recent deterioration in his blood test results and vital signs, Sherlock calculated his survival percentage at 9.7 percent. Although he had more brain then all of Scotland Yard put together, the neurologically destructive nature of the toxin may render his mental performance unsatisfactory. Plus, time was not on their side.

He considered his death, his real and very final death and its potential impact on John. For once in his life, Sherlock felt fear. His apparent death at St Bart's 2 years ago had left John damaged and broken. Only when he returned did he fully appreciate the gravity of his actions. He had promised himself and also to John that history was not to be repeated, least, not without his upmost efforts in preventing the inevitable. The balance of probability however, swayed heavily on the side of death.

His eyes flickered towards Sherrinford who met his gaze. His brother was a different man. The past 15 years had chipped away at his conscience, leaving behind half the man he used to be. Sherlock wasn't sure that he still knew him as he once did. He could not blame him for the current turn of events anymore than he can blame himself for walking into that warehouse and decoding the lock without first calculating the likely consequences. Nonetheless, in the event of his death, Sherlock hoped that his brothers would form some resemblance of a united front. Someone obviously intended on murdering Mycroft. It would only be a matter of time before someone succeeded.

Mycroft. His rubbish big brother. The one and only willing to jump after him into torrential flood water, loosing Redbeard, but ultimately saving his life, only to be subjected to a lifetime of irrational rebellion. But that was their little game, and they each existed in their separate bubble, content with the occasionally overlapping paths. Mycroft taught him that caring was a disadvantage, that sentiment existed on the losing side. Sherlock wonders now whether Mycroft was wrong. If he was to survive, he may just challenge that view.

So yes, given the probabilities and what was at risk, least of all his life, Sherlock conceded that it was within reason to accept assistance from his brothers.

Sherlock grimaced at the shooting pain pounding the front of his skull. The increase in respiratory effort did not help. Nonetheless, he must go on.

"Under one condition."

Mycroft did not answer. Instead, he looked at Sherlock expectantly, awaiting his next words.

"No one is to know of my involvement. They must think that you are the one... poisoned, the one ...dying." He finished his words with some effort, a fit of coughing rendering him speechless. He felt John's arms on his shoulders, and then a glass of warm water pressed against the palms of his hands.

Sherlock looked up to find Mycroft watching him bleakly. "So be it. But that secret will only remain until the point at which your safety is jeopardised." A long established fact. No one threatens his brother. Then, with as much authority as he could muster in a situation outside of his control, Mycroft asked, "What are your current symptoms?"

"Headache, photosensitivity, tremors, nausea and vomiting. Those are the most irritating." Sherlock listed. "John, my latest temperature?"

"38 degrees. In medical terms, you are officially febrile." John said. There was now a perpetual frown on his face.

Sherlock nodded, he paused and looked over at John wearily before proceeding with his next symptom. "I'm becoming short of breath."

John furrowed his brows even more at his words. "That's not good..."

Mycroft stood up abruptly. "Alright, that's enough. We need to move quickly." Already, he was starting to make a call on his mobile phone. "I trust you will alert me, Dr Watson, the minute his condition worsens. I will send through some emergency medical supplies later this evening. Text Anthea with any requests." He placed a single hand on Sherlock's shoulders, rather awkwardly before proceeding towards the door. Sherrinford also stood and followed. He said nothing else to Sherlock.

"Mycroft!" John called as Mycroft and Sherrinford stepped into the stairwell. He ran after them, closing the door to 221B behind him so that Sherlock could not easily overhear their conversation. "How exactly do you plan on helping him? We will find the antidote. He will survive. Right?"

Mycroft replied the only way he knew how. "Yes, John. I will not let my little brother die."

* * *

That afternoon, Sherlock decided that he needed to be at St Bart's to use their library and some of the scientific resources available. John had bundled him up in the cab, his scarf and coat barely able to hide the tremors that ran through him. Before leaving, John had obtained another blood sample and delivered it to Molly for analysis, giving yet another lame explanation of its origins.

"John, I'm afraid this is inappropriate use of St Bart's resources. I work in a morgue after all...people will start questioning me if I keep bringing samples of blood for analysis."

"Rest assured, the person who this blood belongs to is as good as dead, so no one with normal intelligence will likely question its origins." Sherlock offered kindly. John was taken aback by his gentleness, as was Molly. Her cheeks were flushed with colour.

"Who does it belong to anyway? The liver and kidney function from the previous sample was quite deranged." Molly asked. She took a step closer to Sherlock, a frown on her face. "Are you alright, Sherlock? You don't look well."

"It's for a case and yes, I'm fine." Sherlock said, he turned to leave, but not before his eyes lingered moments longer on Molly, as though remembering every last detail of a friend's face. Molly cleared her throat, clearly not quite sure how to react or where to look.

Moving closer until Molly's face and eyes filled with nothing else but glorious raven curls, Sherlock placed a gentle kiss on her cheeks, whispering: "Goodbye, Molly Hooper."

* * *

John managed to convince Sherlock into having a few hours of sleep. Regardless of the urgency of the situation, John could see that Sherlock was falling apart. His feverish determination in finding the antidote had bought him several steps closer to identifying the subclass of the neurotoxin. To John, it was clear that Sherlock's determination to survive focused solely on sparing pain to those around him, rather than preservation of his own life. It was his job to remind Sherlock that his transport, in its damaged state, required more nourishing and rest than ever before.

"You didn't tell me you were short of breath. That's significant. I should have known." John said as he sat in a chair opposite the foot of Sherlock's bed.

Sherlock had looked progressively worse as the day had worn on, tolerating very little oral intake whilst at the same time, over exerting what little reserve he had left. When he had finally agreed to retire for the night, the tenuous steps into his bedroom had taken almost 5 minutes. John had stood beside him, only offering him a helping hand when Sherlock, his forehead sleek with sweat, had finally turned and whispered his name.

Without saying a word, John had taken Sherlock's arms and wrapped it around his shoulders, providing the much needed support as he walked the final meters into his bedroom. Sherlock had half collapsed into his bed, his breathing ragged and heavy.

_Yes, Sherlock, breathing is dull, but ever so vital to life._

He watched now as Sherlock blinked in confusion.

"John, what difference would it have made had I mentioned it? You noted increase respiratory effort. What I am experiencing reflects what you observed." Sherlock looked perplexed by his concern.

"It scares me." John said quietly.

"What does?"

"That the Holmes brothers are stumped. When in history has that ever happened? Sherrinford doesn't have the antidote. Mycroft, despite all pretences, is scared out of his wits. And you-how long do you think we have until the symptoms overwhelm you? Until you die?"

"Rather cynical today, aren't you? You don't give up until I do, alright? I'm not giving up..." Sherlock lips curled upwards. A cough escaped him, draining him of any remaining strength he had. His eyelids drooped.

John knew that for the high functioning sociopath, sentiment reached far deeper than what he let on to the world outside 221B Baker Street. He tried to smile back but could not, his jaw frozen with tension. "I buried you once, Sherlock. I'm not doing it again."

Sherlock closed his eyes and let out a long sigh. It was a long time before he answered.

"You won't have to."

* * *

_**How is my brother, Doctor Watson? MH**_

_Sleeping. JW_

_**Amazing, I am surprised you managed that. MH**_

_He was exhausted. JW_

_Progress? JW_

_**Eastern Europe. Preparing to depart London now. MH**_

_**See that my brother survives my leave of absence, Dr Watson. MH**_

* * *

Please review, favourite, follow as you see fit :) Thank you for all the nice comments I got with the last chapter.

For those interested in a Sherlock death Fic, I wrote one recently called "Sacrifice." Summary: John Watson is the most important person to Sherlock Holmes. When John is taken by Moriarty, Sherlock makes his greatest sacrifice. Oneshot. Warning: Death Fic


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